Jo Hilder is a writer, artisan, an experienced speaker and author of four books, most recently the author of Small and Pure – A Cautionary Tale, released in June 2016 by Rhiza Press.
Twenty Things That Are Not Writing
Are you a writer? If you are, you may understand the funk I’m in. I’m a writer, except that sometimes I don’t write. I do things related to writing, but they are not writing. They do not help the actual writing, in fact, they impede proper writing. They may be procrastination. They are probably self-imposed resistance. They are often lots of fun. But, sadly, they are not writing.
When the knock came Sandra was ready for it. She knew there would be consequences, and she’d counted the cost. It was just a dog, after all, so how bad could it be? A fine? A criminal charge? Whatever was coming, she wouldn’t deny what she’d done. That bitch fucking had it coming, she thought to herself, as she took the chain off the door. But what happened next she could never have predicted, despite knowing she was guilty as hell.
An Cailleach Agus A Ri Gypsy
“Yer can’t go down in there,”, Margot whispered harshly to her friend, grabbing her by the skirt. “Everyone knows that’s where the witch lives!” “Don’tcha think I know that? I just want a peek. Everyone says you know her house when you see it, because it’s blue,” said Colleen, pushing further through the thicket. “I don’t believe in witches anyway. That’s for babies.” Margot stood on the spot for a minute, torn between her curiosity and her terror. “Are you coming?” hissed Colleen. “Awwww, wait for me then!” and Margot was off after her friend, plunging into the dark, brambly woods.
It's Not Spirituality
If it lifts me up and pushes you down, it’s not spirituality. If it divides and separates us from each other, sectioning us into factions of us and other, it’s not spirituality.
A Little Bit Broken
The ground beside the cottage was scoured to the earth where just a few days ago was acres of stubby, winter grass. The sheep were on the move again. Walking out to take a look, at first, I noticed just a few pieces of broken pottery; fragments of blue and white china, the edge of a smashed plate. And glass; thousands of pieces of broken bottles; bits of blue, green and brown, and some the pink-violet tint of amethyst. Concealed under the grass, I'd never seen them before, but now they were everywhere.
The Last Scout
“I don’t understand” she said, shifting again in the chair, shoulders slumped making her appear smaller than her sixteen years. “I don’t understand any of this.”